


you understand

by angelheartbeat



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Advice, Alcohol, Attempt at Humor, Aziraphale is a dumb bitch, Footnotes, M/M, Pining, Understanding, you know how it be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-05-18 07:04:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19329535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelheartbeat/pseuds/angelheartbeat
Summary: Aziraphale thinks he understands things. He certainly understands how to give humans advice, and how to spend rainy days. He does not understand Crowley.But maybe he doesn't need to.





	you understand

**Author's Note:**

> what! the fuck
> 
> turn back now, all ye who enter here, for danger of incoherent plot...

The English language, as a language that pickpockets others and pieces together letters into Frankenstein's monsters of vocabulary, has a few truly wonderful words. Petrichor, for example. Scintillating. Numinous. Elysian, serendipity, antidisestablishmentarianism.

They're all nice words, but on the whole not words that especially matter for this story. The word we need, or more like a concept, and one that quite a few people are partial to - much simpler than those other words, too - is love.

Love is something that Aziraphale understands. It's everywhere, after all, both inside of him and out. Love he can handle.

Of course, there are other things he understands, like that sushi tastes divine (especially with soy sauce), and that books should be kept safe and never sold. Humans are delightfully odd. Gabriel is - for want of a nicer word - a wanker. Reading glasses make one look rather classy, even if one doesn't necessarily need them. Wing upkeep is altogether too much hassle.

As with everything, though, there are opposites. Every action has an equal opposite reaction, after all, and there are naturally things Aziraphale has never understood. Why some people are so frightfully rude. How someone could stand to fold the corners of a book page, or - gasp - crack the spine. The idea of golden syrup in tea. Crowley.

Crowley.

Crowley is an enigma tied up neatly with a ribbon made of mystery, possibly patterned like a snake. He's the crime in a detective novel that's missing the last fifty pages. He's an overcomplicated maths equation that doesn't actually have an answer, and you don't have a calculator, and there's some maths professors staring you down, and your pen has run out of ink. And you're naked, because this experience can't get any worse. And the room is on fire.

Aziraphale has spent six thousand years trying to understand Crowley, and has spent none of them actually understanding him. Every time he thinks he has it figured out, Crowley pulls some shit like saving him from Nazis, or robbing a church, or making Hamlet popular just for him, and he has to start back at square one. There's something about him that just spans further than Aziraphale can seem to comprehend.

He's ineffable, the little bit of his heart that wears sunglasses and skinny jeans whispers to him any time he thinks for too long about the mystery that is Crowley, and much as he'd like to (and threatens to) beat it back with a flaming sword he has to admit the adjective fits awfully well.

We must assume that Aziraphale also doesn't understand irony, because the idea that he understands _love_ and _Crowley_ to be mutually exclusive is laughable. It also implies that he doesn't understand love half as well as he thinks he does.

All of this delightfully convenient story set-up (sans the last bit, which is just for you and me) is going through Aziraphale's head on a rainy afternoon in London, as he gazes out of a window and looks every bit the picture of calm. Rainy afternoons are some of the best afternoons. No one can be bothered to trudge through puddles to get to an old bookshop, so his precious tomes are relatively safe from grubby hands. The only person who could be bothered is Crowley, and Aziraphale never minds seeing him.

Right on cue, the door creaks open, and Aziraphale cocks his head. "Crowley?"

"Um, no."

The voice is vaguely familiar, but Aziraphale can't place it. Wandering to where he can see the newcomer, he sees it's a young man, hair plastered to his face by rain and glasses rendered nearly-useless. He's dripping water on the floor. Aziraphale wrinkles his nose.

"Can I help you?" he asks, not trying particularly hard to keep the disdain out of his voice, until it clicks where he knows the man. "Oh! You're that young fellow from the air base! I'm terribly sorry, I don't think I ever caught your name in all the kerfuffle."

"It's Newton," says Newton, still dripping water on the floor. "People call me Newt." He looks a bit like a lost puppy, gazing around the bookshop with wide eyes. Or maybe more like a drowned rat.

"Well, Newt. I'm Aziraphale. What brings you here?"

"Um.. If I'm honest, I don't really know. I was going to visit Sergeant Shadwell, and then I just sort of... ended up here." He gestures lamely around the shop, droplets of water arcing from his raincoat sleeve and smattering down around the room. Each droplet to a book feels like a bullet to Aziraphale's chest.

"Well, as you're here," he says, desperate to get Newt and his wet self away from his precious books. "Would you like a spot of tea?"

Still visibly bewildered, Newt nods, and Aziraphale smiles and claps his hands together. With the clap, all the water seems to disappear from Newt's clothes, his hair fluffing back up and his glasses cleaner than they'd been in a while.

"Whoa," Newt mumbles, staring down at his suddenly very warm and dry hands in amazement. When he looks back up, Aziraphale's back is disappearing into a different room, and he has to snap to and rush after him.

"I'm afraid to tell you your trip may have been in vain regardless," Aziraphale says, pouring a pot of tea into mugs that seemed to appear out of nowhere. "I'm fairly certain Sergeant Shadwell moved away from London with Madame Tracy."

"Oh," says Newt, sounding disappointed. "I wonder why he didn't tell me."

"Difficult to say," Aziraphale replies, and hands Newt a mug. Newt sits down on a chair, awkwardly. "I never knew Shadwell terribly well, and I must confess I never understood him."

Not in the same way he doesn't understand Crowley. Shadwell was just another vaguely weird human, who would die in the blink of an eye[1] and managed to be strange and off-putting enough to confuse Aziraphale's wide understanding of Humanity.

"Well, that's okay," Newt sighs. "I guess I'll just explore London a bit more. Always wanted to visit here more often."

"Don't you live down in Tadfield, with that lovely girl - Anathema, was it? Crowley went down to visit her, and I thought I heard him mumble something about a male companion."

"Oh. Yeah, he came to visit us."

"You don't sound pleased."

Newt sighs, and Aziraphale feels the sudden need to offer him a biscuit. Another thing he understands is that humans respond well to the offer of food - as does he - especially when they're sad, and the sigh Newt just gave absolutely reeks of sadness. So he grabs the tin from the nearby table and offers it to Newt, who takes a custard cream gratefully.

"It's alright. Things with Anathema have just been in an odd place lately, and I-"

Newt cuts himself off, blinking. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be spilling all of this to you. We've hardly met."

Aziraphale chuckles. "My dear boy, spill all you like." He's definitely not interested in the drama[2]. He's just intrigued by the lives of the people who helped him avert the apocalypse. If this were a different setting, one might make a reference to spilling the tea, but if one tried it here then Aziraphale would quietly mumble something about a waste of tea and leave one feeling rather embarrassed. Modern slang around an angel isn't a brilliant idea, especially not when you're threatening to spill one of his favourite beverages.

Newt looks relieved, so Aziraphale is pretty certain he was hoping he would say that. "I don't think we're exactly dating anymore. She said that she didn't want to follow Agnes' plan for her, and that involved dating me, so she thought we should, maybe... take a break."

"But you wish you were still with her," Aziraphale replies, because it's obvious, and he has a penchant for stating the obvious.

"Well, yes. She's wonderful. I mean, I like being friends with her, too, but." Newt shrugs, and Aziraphale is hit with the distinct pang that only people relating far too well with the person in front of them can get. He doesn't understand it. Why would he be relating to Newt? There's no one in his life he wishes he could call something other than a friend.

The sunglasses-and-skinny-jeans part of his heart is back again, a bit angry about the whole Aziraphale wanting to beat it down with a sword debacle, and hissing something in his ear that he does Not want to think about, thank you very much.

"You still love her, not just as a friend," Aziraphale supplies, batting away that bit of his heart like one would do a fly. Newt avoids his eyes and sips his tea as he nods.

"Plus, you know. She's American, and um. Since we're not really dating, I'm worried there's not a whole lot keeping her here."

"Except you, my dear fellow."

"But-"

"Love comes in many forms, Newt," Aziraphale explains calmly, with all the patience of someone who's explained this a million times before to a million different people, and who has become just a little patronising with it along the way. But he's thousands of years old and quite literally forged out of love and stardust. He thinks he's allowed to be a little bit patronising, when he wants to be.

Newt looks a mixture of bewildered and relieved, with a healthy dose of _don't you think I know that?_ , and some _that makes sense but you're being very cryptic about it and I'd much rather you said it outright, please_ thrown in for good measure.

Aziraphale decides to say it outright. "You might not be involved in a romantic sense, but love of all kinds makes people want to stay somewhere, or with someone. You might return to romance, or you might not. Either way, you love each other. That's all that matters."

There's another twinge in his chest and he swallows, sipping his tea to avoid having to talk any more. His advice to Newt is, overall, advice he himself could very much use regarding a certain ginger snake. Come on now, Aziraphale, you know exactly who we mean. You love him, and that's all that matters.

Aziraphale bats us away for being obnoxiously forward with his feelings (terribly rude of him, but we were being quite a nuisance) and refocuses on Newt, who has failed to notice our presence. I told you Aziraphale doesn't understand love half as well as he thinks he does. At least when he experiences it.

Newt is staring at Aziraphale like he's just revealed a universal truth that Newt is very embarrassed he didn't realise by himself[3]. His stare would be discomfiting to Aziraphale if he wasn't already used to most of his moves being scrutinised, so he just blinks owlishly instead and waits for a reply.

"You have a point," Newt concedes, and Aziraphale gives him a smile that he hopes isn't patronising. Just because he's allowed to be patronising doesn't mean he always wants to be. That's really more up Crowley's alley, although the demon would take offense to that.

"Another biscuit?" offers Aziraphale in lieu of more wisdom, and Newt takes another custard cream, followed by a chocolate hobnob, which Aziraphale tries not to bristle too much at[4].

The conversation continues with mild pleasantries and more biscuits, which, to Newt's surprise, don't seem to be depleting in numbers whatsoever. He's still struggling to discern what, exactly, Aziraphale is. Unfortunately he wasn't clued in on most of the shenanigans involved in The Little Apocalypse That Couldn't, namely the natures of the more supernatural elements, but he was pretty sure Aziraphale wasn't human. That would have come as much more of a shock to Newt from a year ago, whose only experience with the supernatural was watching Buzzfeed Unsolved in the middle of the night. Now, with a witch as his not-girlfriend and the Antichrist (he thinks) popping round for lemonade with his friends every other day, he feels a lot more secure in saying that maybe things aren't as mundane as people would have him believe.

"I think I should be going," Newt eventually says, when his eyes land on the antique clock on Aziraphale's wall. He says this, but because he's British he then stays for another half an hour until he slaps his knees, exclaims "Right!" and finally gets up. Aziraphale rises as well, blinking in surprise when he notices the time.

"Awfully sorry I've taken up so much of your time, dear fellow," he chuckles awkwardly, folding his hands together on instinct. Newt shakes his head, glancing outside.

"Took up enough time for it to stop raining, which is something."

"Will you be staying in London? I'd love for you to pop by again if you are."

"Well, yeah, I was planning to. Although that was when I was going to see Sergeant Shadwell, so-"

"If you're staying, try the little hotel around the corner. I believe a room has just miraculously come available, and it's delightful."

Aziraphale gives Newt an innocently angelic smile as the latter frowns, but doesn't question it. They exchange a few more pleasantries, and then Newt lollops off into the street like a large dog with longer limbs than he knows what to do with. He waves as the door swings shut, and as soon as he's gone Aziraphale turns the sign to a polite _Closed!_ and wanders back into his back room, frowning.

Newt has eaten most of his hobnobs, but that isn't why he's frowning, although it does deepen as he waves his hand to refill the tin. He's frowning because he's thinking about Newt's situation with Anathema, and trying very hard not to relate it to his own - rather more complex, not to brag - relationship with Crowley. Although they'd moved on rather rapidly, the cogs of his mind had continued turning idly as he made minor chatter about less thought-provoking topics. And more thought-provoking topics, like Newt's ideas on the greatest literature of the sixteenth century[5]

On the whole, Aziraphale understands most things, but it seems to be beyond him that he could possibly love someone he's spent six thousand years spending time with, conspirating with, caring for and, well, loving, or that that is why his understanding of Crowley is so limited.

Because, you see, Aziraphale understands love, but at the same time love can't exactly be understood. That's the way She planned it, in the interest of ineffability and all that. It's confusing and messy and difficult just as much as it is wonderful and exhilarating and joyous, and Aziraphale has yet to see this, even though it encapsulates almost all of his relationship with Crowley. He understands the joyous part, but its like he refuses to see the difficulty. Maybe that's because he's an angel, maybe he's just stubborn. And its like he told Newt - love comes in many forms, even in just one relationship.

But lets be real - very few people want to understand love. Its easier to just feel. No one wants to analyse their actions (for the most part). And no one wants to read about it, either, which is why for the sake of entertainment we should skip to the juicy stuff.

It's the next evening - rainy again, moreso this time, and the bookshop is filled with the quiet cosiness that only a well-loved place can take on in the middle of a rainstorm. Aziraphale is comfortable. He's not overthinking his own actions for once, he doesn't have one of Crowley's bebop tunes stuck in his head, and his cocoa is still warm.

Then the door sweeps open with a mighty _swoosh_ and Crowley enters, looking disgruntled and wet. Aziraphale clicks his fingers almost on instinct and Crowley's dry again, and hoisting a bottle of champagne into the air.

"What are we celebrating?" Aziraphale asks, in lieu of a hello.

"My decision to get drunk," Crowley replies. And Aziraphale can't argue with that.

Since we're throwing poor Aziraphale and his more-minimal-than-he-thought understanding of love under the metaphorical bus, lets cut him some slack and return to things he does understand. One of which is that alcohol makes everything easier to say. Mentally, that is. Physically you might be slurring a bit.

"Newt stopped by the other day," he says two drinks in. Crowley raises an eyebrow. "It was nice to talk to him. I gave him some advice for himself and Anathema. He's having trouble, you see, with his feelings."

"Aren't we all," Crowley drawls in response, eyes fixed solidly on Aziraphale's. Not that the latter would know, behind those infernal sunglasses.

Eight drinks in, Aziraphale hiccups, and mumbles that "I don't understand you, Crowley."

"What's that now?"

"You're confusing. You do nice things but you hate being called nice, and I can't tell why."

Crowley, who himself is on the drunker end of tipsy, just chuckles and pours himself another glass.

And then, twelve drinks in, Aziraphale lets out a deep sigh and allows himself to slump down. A lot of things come to his mind in that moment. Things he understands, things he doesn't, things he wishes he did. A realisation is reached.

"I think I'm in love with you," he says quietly, and everything stops.

Let's talk about Crowley.

Crowley himself understands quite a few things in the world. He understands that humans are garbage, for one thing, which is something that Aziraphale has refused to believe for six thousand years. He understands that sleeping is a fine pleasure, and evil dissipates like smoke when you know how to start the fire. He understands that he's been in love with Aziraphale since the idiot gave away his God-given sword, and he understands that Aziraphale is never, ever going to notice that fact of his own volition. He loves him in all the forms that Aziraphale meant when he told Newt about them so calmly. He understands Aziraphale.

What he doesn't understand is what Aziraphale has just said. This could be due to six thousand years of quietly resigned pining, or it could be due to his being drunk.

"It's like I... like I said to Newt, y'see," Aziraphale blabbers, discomfited by Crowley's silence, his words melting together somewhat. "Love comes... well it comes in many forms, and I understand that, because I understan' love, y'know? Like with him and Anath... Ana... Ana... Book girl. He loves her, but she loves him too, its jus' not. Obvious. I.. oh, gosh, I'm too drunk for this."

Crowley took the opportunity while Aziraphale was mumbling to sober up himself, and thus watches patiently as his angel does the same.

"I think you're making a mistake with relating us to Newt and book girl."

Aziraphale frowns. "But the situations..."

"Oh, yeah, no, they're similar. One persons in love, big time. The other one probably hasn't realised yet that they're also in love. Either that or they're not and will never be, but that's a depressing reality no one wants to consider, and either way they still love them, just not romantically. Blah blah, yadda yadda. But you're not Newt. I'm Newt."

"I don't follow."

Crowley sighs a long-suffering sigh. "Angel, I've spent six thousand odd years in love with you."

Aziraphale blinks. "Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

"I don't understand."

And then Crowley smiles, a sickeningly wide smile that should really crack his face in two, and tells Aziraphale something that he's desperately needed to hear for a long, long time. "Angel, you don't _need_ to understand."

Aziraphale has spent six thousand years trying to understand Crowley, and countless other things, and not once has he stopped to consider that maybe he doesn't need to understand. Just knowing is fine enough. But maybe now he understands that he loves Crowley, in countless different ways, and maybe that's even better.

Plus, now they can spend a rainy evening on Aziraphale's sofa, snogging. Hey, they're in love. You understand.

* * *

 

1What felt like the blink of an eye relative to Aziraphale's lifespan, anyhow. Humans live such a terribly short while, and he's watched the lives and deaths of countless generations before Shadwell. That's not to say he doesn't care - many angels would say he cares far too much as it is - but rather that, after a certain number of years, one has to develop at least a little bit of numbness.[return to text]

2Drama is a much more Crowley thing to be interested in. Aziraphale is certain he's caught him glued to a "soap opera" more than once. But really, if Aziraphale were a little more honest with himself, he definitely would be interested in the drama at least a little bit.[return to text]

3Well, that _is_ what Aziraphale did.[return to text]

4Chocolate hobnobs are one of Aziraphale's favourites. Never mind the fact that he can miracle up some more. He does not like people eating his hobnobs.[return to text]

5Suffice it to say, his ideas were minimal.[return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> if you dont know what hobnobs are, god im so sorry uve been deprived of one of lifes greatest joys. its 2am and ive jus made myself hungry for hobnobs
> 
> i wrote that first paragraph like three nights ago. its 3am on a different day and i literally dont know if the plot of this fic even exists let alone if its coherent and im too tired to proofread. no beta we die like men
> 
> my tumblr is @thoriffix if ur interested in strange rbs and the odd dumb post
> 
> comments validate me and i am so in need of validation. thank you for donating to the grays self esteem fund


End file.
